New experiences can go either way. But in my case shit has always gone down hill.

Police is just as terrifying as I had thought, and watching the criminals getting beaten to pulp in the interrogation process, only adds up to the fear. In fact, it reminds me of the time I had been caught along with a few guys for breaking in a local stadium at two in the night.

Nothing bad happened, though... mostly because my father took care of the matter before we could become convenient outlets for these frustrated officers. I wasn't expecting it, but he handled the whole thing quite maturely. Instead of making me feel the brunt, he got the stadium owners in a controversy, which eventually led to its closure. Did I not mention that he is an attorney? That's one of the reasons why I am a little comfortable whilst leaving an ass print on this metal chair.

Kylie's mother, on the other hand, seems quite unfazed. Then again, my assumption is purely based on the sweet sound of building blocks aligning on her phone screen. According to the game's statistics, she is the second fastest player to cross fifty levels in a single day.

I wasn't on-board with this interrogation at all, but my refusal could create problems for me and Emma. I still curse my undying curiosity, which led me into this mess in the first place. This would be so much easier if I was clueless, if I didn't need to protect anybody.
"Care to join them?" The detective's voice makes me realise that Kylie's mom is already getting up from her seat. Despite acknowledging the sarcasm in his voice, I nod and shoot a smile at him like a fool.

I walk behind Ms. Williams, only spotting a white shirt barely fitting the huge arms of the suspect on the other side of the table. As she gradually unblocks my view, I find a lump forming in my throat. The same ruffled hair, the same slumped stance, and one of his legs set on the corner of the table... just like it were a bench in the classroom.

How is this possible? Jacobs... Brandon Jacobs?

His eyes catch mine, but he quickly dismisses it, instead of crookedly grinning at me. He probably doesn't even remember me, I try to explain to my shaking calves. Making it past Ms. Williams, I take a seat after assuring that the line of vision between his eyes and mine is a little subverted.

I try to rest my hands on the table, but it is weirdly cold and painful, reminding me of the wounds on my body. The sound of his wrist watch screeching on the table, pounds in my head like a nightmare that doesn't want to leave. Every second of being in the same room with him... it's nothing but torture.

"Did you ever take Kylie out of the city? At a beach maybe?" Ms. Williams sharply gazes at him, looking more than just prepared.

"So you found the sand coated handcuffs, huh?" He chuckles to himself, while I fail to push my intrusive thoughts aside, and let an imagery of the scene form in my mind. Just the thought makes me want to puke.

"It was a good day... we rented a vintage car, got sunburns on the beach, and she made me try these weird slushies. I mean, I've had red and blue before, but this one was..."

Crystal. I frantically look around to confirm if I indeed blurted that out in my mind. I take it as a positive as they continue arguing in a little cloud of theirs.

I am glad they didn't hear it. That would only raise more questions.

***

The April sun didn't spare even an inch of the spread out sand, fawning over the horde of striped towels and tanned bodies. I briefly glanced at a group of girls taking turns on a surfboard, in spite of miserably dropping to the shore before the waves can touch their hourglass bodies. Cute.

"Don't be a creep, George," Kylie lied back on her lounge chair whilst sipping on sparking water.

It isn't like me to spontaneously plan a beach trip on a Wednesday, but sulking over a break up did sound a lot sadder than third wheeling with your friend and her booty call. I could already tell that my influence was rubbing off on our group.

"It's called admiring the beauty around you," I pulled my shades off and set them beside the dripping water cup. "I get that staying hydrated is cool and everything, but, once again, why are you doing this to yourself?"

"It's a slushy. Can't you see the soda bubbles on the top?" She pointed out the ground breaking revelation to me. "The transparency is because of gin." A wicked smile took over her cherry lips as she left an impression on the lid of the glass.

"Gin, you say? Things are definitely getting wild up here," I laughed, earning a nod from Kylie.

Taking advantage of the shade of the palm tree lined in spaces,  I lied on my back to take a quick nap. Sleep came easily since my eyes were all cried out and my overwhelming parents weren't around. Though, it didn't last long as a few idiotic, high on endorphins high school students decided to sprinkle sand on each other as a fun activity.

I let it go until my back was covered with burning granules of sand and pelting stones. "Fuckers!" I got back up to dust it off my body, keeping my gaze fixated on the frivolous morons.

In the process, my eyes caught upon a Latina staring at me, or rather drooling if you ask my rose tinted glasses. Her Pepsi shaded hair perfectly blended with her inborn tan, and completed the colour palette with a beige swimsuit. Monotone never looked better.

I was about to drop a few dollars on a drink for two, when a guy sporting a hefty 'salt as compared to pepper' look, slid his arms around her waist. And he looked quite familiar for some reason. "Damn hell!" Kylie stood beside me, throwing her head back in frustration. Her twisted features brought back a memory of me offering a joint to the same guy while smoking one barley inches away from his face.

"That's your father?" I asked her, scratching my head. Her heavy sigh in return was enough of an answer to my enquiry. "And that's his mistress?"

"No!" She lightly kicked my leg, even though I deserved much worse. "She's his wife. I suppose they are celebrating their three year anniversary."

"But she was totally checking me out," I tried to explain as Kylie scoffed in response. "I get that it is my habit to exaggerate stuff, but I won't lie about your father's wife."

"Please keep it in your pants, and behave," she instructed me while waving at her father. They began walking towards us, one of them frowning at me, and the other smiling in a lustful manner. No need for a specification there.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Kylie. And on a school day, nonetheless," he hugged his daughter, who couldn't be less enthralled with the encounter.

"I am in college now, Dad," she chuckled whilst squeezing the plastic cup of her slushy to a non recyclable piece of waste. "You've met George," she patted my bare shoulder— an indication of throwing me under the bus.

"Yes, I do remember him," he forced a smile as I shook hands with him. "George's in the same batch as Kylie," he bitterly introduced me to his wife. You should be glad that I am batchmates with Kylie, or else...

"Great to see you both," she flashed a toothy grin, adjusting a lilac tulip tucked beside her ear. While I was expecting a heavy accent, she spoke like a native New Yorker. It made me wonder if it sometimes things don't work out for good.

"You too, Cristina," Kylie hardly put any effort with her. It's disturbing that their interaction reminds me of a soap opera, my mother has been bingeing in the past few days. The real stepmoms of America.

I admit that I am someone who enjoys being a spectator to such scenarios, but the tension between them was on the verge of disturbing my repetitive cycle of breathing. "So... we here heading for lunch."

"Same here! Maybe we could join you guys," Cristina beamed at her husband, wearing him down eventually as he nodded for the sake. "There's a shack, just a hop away from the beach, and it seemed like a nice place from the looks of it. So, we'll see you there in ten minutes?" She asked, or rather announced before heading along with her husband.

Meanwhile, I patiently waited to get a mouthful from Kylie. "You'll pay for this, Bailey," she whispered— her tone chilly— and stomped ahead, leaving me to make my own conclusions out of the warning. I really need to watch my words next time.

As opposed to my predictions, the lunch went quite calmly; leaving aside the unusual clacking of cutlery from Kylie's side. The steak was violently stabbed to shreds until it's juices were flowing off to the sides of the plate.

Cristina insisted on paying the check and no one resisted her wish. The problem only arose when a gust of wind blew over the bills to Kylie; one of which had a phone number penned down next to Lincoln. "Are you cheating on my father?" She got up from her seat, making everyone do the same in a simultaneous action. "Call me," she flashed the paper to us, but apparently, only dawning me in shock.

Both of them stood zipped silent, their faces turning pale. "Dad, she is cheating on you!" Kylie screamed loud enough for the neighbouring tables to stare at us.

"Keep it down, Kylie. This is nothing like you think." Mr. Meyers looked embarrassed, but not because of the onlookers.

"You don't believe me? It has her fucking number on it!" She  crumpled the crisp note before setting it down on the table. "Try and explain this to me."

"We are in an open marriage," Cristina whispered, folding her arms to her chest. A bunch of gasps were heard as people proudly displayed their eavesdropping skills.

"Is this true?" Kylie asked, already grabbing on to her clutch and goggles. Her question was met by a mixture of queer and awkward silence.

"Son of a..." I pushed the rest of the words back to my throat, thinking better. I was too afraid to say anything to Kylie, and especially when her gaze was set like stone, on a wine glass next to her plate.

"Is this the reason why you divorced mom ? Because she didn't agree to this mockery?" Her voice felt shaky, something I hadn't ever witnessed in our year long friendship.

Her Dad didn't answer, but it's obviousness didn't go by any of us. It was almost ironic— his belief that we were spoiling Kylie, when his image of the perfect father figure wasn't too polished itself. You really can't expect anything from fathers... nothing apart from the materialistic shit.

"We need a reliable witness to confirm to your claims," the detective's loud voice pulls me out of the reel playing in my head.

"Happy to comply." Jacobs replies, holding the same satanic look to his eyes. "How about the daughter of one of the professors in Arlington? If it calms your nerves, I can arrange for Rachel Stinson to come to the station. George can help me out here... he knows her, right?"

His mention of Rachel takes me back to the night I saw them at her house, but was too afraid to do anything about it. "She is a friend," I pull up the sleeves of my shirt, a new born confidence taking over me. He cannot get away with messing around with my life, or the people important to me. Not again.

"That reminds me... did you guys get into an argument or something? Because she seemed a little low while mentioning you a few days back. She said something about bullying or... you know, forget it, I might have got it wrong," he shakes his head, trying to act oblivious to the fire he has set.

Why is he doing this?

I can feel the discerning gaze of the detective and Kylie's mother on me, grinding with suspicion. Luckily, none of them takes it too far, aside from making a polite request to keep my schedule open, in case something arises. Judging by their sardonic tone, a similar situation is in fact, going to arise very soon.

I leave the precinct as soon as the interrogation wraps up, while Kylie's mother stays back to deal with some formal complaint complications. The adrenaline, the fear, and the hazy recollections swivel through my mind like the rush you get out of a Xanax, as I step out in fresh air. It could be a sign of my addiction to those tiny white thingies, but I am too drained to even address it.

With my phone switched off and my car gone to repair workshop, I jog on the sidewalk leading past the station, until my shirt is drenched in sweat and I run out of a workout playlist to mumble to myself. Looking at the sign board directing the pedestrians to a left for the sixth avenue, I realise that I have covered more than six miles since I began.

Inadvertently slumping down at the entrance of a shady bar, I try to get my breathing back in a rhythmic pattern. Except that every ounce of air that travels through my throat, feels like a boulder crushing my insides. My legs begin to ache exasperatedly as I try to stretch them out on the uneven concrete. The built up frustration begins to act out as I take kicks at the stone wall and miserably attempt to prove a point. That I am more than just a scum of earth.

I lose control of my movements, and probably begin to look like a child throwing a tantrum in the middle of the supermarket. A few drunkards observe me with fascination before carrying on with their hazed out lives. The infinite loop only breaks when a dominant scent of rose and bourbon overpowers my willingness to reek of cement. Her tiny hands barely clasp mine, but give me more comfort than I can explain.
"It's okay... I am here," she whispers, relaxing my rapid movements bit by bit. I let out a forced sigh, trying not to scare her like I did the last time. However, my hands don't stop shaking, in spite of the mental instructions.

I keep shivering uncontrollably until a denim jacket covers over the thin fabric of my shirt. My hazy gaze spots the Prada label hanging on the hem of the jacket, bringing a small smile to my cold lips. "I won't spoil it."

"I know," she leans further, her warm breath grazing my cheeks. "I also know that you didn't mean what you said that night. Agreed, my judgement of people has not always been the best... but that's because I am not the best of the breed myself."

Her words feel like a brag, considering the shadiness of my life. I had a choice, I could have just been a regular athlete who makes his college proud and his letterman jacket, a precious asset. But I despised being one of those... those who pretend to lead a life of normalcy while losing a part of theirs, every night as they fall asleep.

"You shouldn't have to draw comparison with me... a bully. But I don't like to harm people. I just try to build a guard around myself, so they can't threaten me. Me, my friends, we try to look tough, but believe me when I say that all of us are riddled with weaknesses."

She doesn't respond for a while, making me regret the blunt honesty of my confessions. Just as I begin to lift myself up, a sudden weight makes me slip back down on the tiles. Looking back, I find her head leaning on my shoulder and her arms locking themselves around my chest.

"I have been there, too. All along my school years, I had been the oddity amongst the sunshine like kids. So much that no one even bothered to accompany me during lunch. Then again, who would want to share their home cooked meals with my cheap takeouts," a chuckle breaks out of her lips, and not the kind that makes her cheeks just a slight bit more pink for a moment. "I didn't even have the rich card to play back then. Maybe that's why I value these expensive labels more than my life... because they give me an edge over the others. Someone who has never had the apparent real joys of life, can only turn to the materialistic crap. I think that's the reason why my mother got lured towards a different life... it had so much to offer her back then, maybe even now."

The calmness of her voice infuriates me.

I know this, and every other student of Arlington knows this, but none of us ever bothered to brush past the rumours lurking around. No one should have to deal with something like this... no matter what. "None of that is on you, Rachel. And it never will be."

"I am aware of that, George. I was just trying to make you feel better, and get you out of this sadistic state." She deviously smiles, leaving me in splits.

We pull each other back up and head for a coffee at a nearby Starbucks. I feel a little sceptical of my attire, but she assures me that I won't get a deprecating look from the baristas over there. She must be right because I witness one of them blushing as I place my order.
"I guess Raquel has ordered a mint mocha macchiato," Rachel rolls her eyes whilst ripping off the name tag.

"In their defence, you do have a Spanish touch to your dressing," I point to her layered skirt.

"Well, truth be told I always wanted to have a classy Spanish origin name like my mother did. In fact until middle school, I even took the liberty of adopting her name with mine. I used to address myself as Rachel Cristina Stinson."
Flaming hot latte spills out of my mouth the very next second. "Cristina?"